


Bitter Tears

by qodarkness



Series: Love Is Like A Bottle Of Gin [7]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accurate description of a squid’s love life, Another piece of the Theon/Sansa puzzle, F/M, I promise, Is Sansa’s motto, Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark - Freeform, Love Is Like A Bottle Of Gin Universe, Magnetic Fields, Modern AU, Past Relationship(s), Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy - Freeform, Referenced past abuse, Songfic, The opposite of trauma is order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qodarkness/pseuds/qodarkness
Summary: Sansa laughed, then hiccuped, then laughed again. “Not classy, Theon,” she said.“Sansa,” he drawled in response. “No one has ever accused me of being classy.”“Are,” she said softly. “This is classy. Being kind. Didn’t know… before. But being kind… classy.”“Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything,” said Theon. “Thank you for giving me my “I’m Classy” merit badge, oh future Queen of all Westeros.”
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Series: Love Is Like A Bottle Of Gin [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581478
Kudos: 50





	Bitter Tears

There was a look Theon had grown to know since he’d mostly stopped drinking. A look where someone recognised that they’d hit the limit of their body’s ability to process the amount of alcohol they’d been drinking and that it was likely to be coming back up the same way it’d gone down. He’d seen it on Robb and Jon more than once, on Yara who managed it with the same fierce determination as she did everything else, on Arya that time they’d all agreed not to mention to her parents and even on Gendry, capable as that man was at holding his booze. He’d never expected to see it on Sansa.

Yet there she was, on the other side of the room from him and he recognised the pallor of her skin, the sheen of sweat across her forehead, the sudden regretful expression on her face as she put down the tall glass in her hand on the table next to her. 

Theon said a couple of words to the girl he’d been talking to (Bessa?) and disengaged quickly, slipping around the crowd of people and over to Sansa’s side. 

“Sansa,” he said as softly as he could manage over the music and the raucous shouts of the partygoers. “Do you want to be sick?”

She nodded, her eyes closed, her face utterly miserable. 

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll take you to the back bathroom upstairs. Can you just hold on until I get you there?”

She nodded again and didn’t open her eyes as he took her elbow, steered her up the stairs, past various people and down to the quieter back of the house. Thankfully, everyone had mostly respected Ned and Catelyn’s request not to go to the master bedroom and there was no one in their bathroom. 

Theon barely managed to steer her to the toilet and get the seat up before Sansa was on her knees, throwing up apparently everything she’d ever drunk or eaten, judging by the incredibly miserable noises she made. Carefully Theon reached around her, pulled her hair back and held it, making soothing noises as Sansa retched and retched. 

It seemed to take forever, but slowly Sansa’s heaving diminished until she was eventually able to sit back on her haunches, finally silent. 

“Do you want some water?” asked Theon and Sansa nodded. He manoeuvred her back, light pressure on her shoulders until he could get her to sit against the wall, jeans-clad legs splayed out in front of her, her eyes still closed. She didn’t open them even when Theon brought her the glass he’d filled at the sink and she took a few sips, leaning forward again to spit the taste of it out of her mouth and then took a few swallows until she grimaced and put the glass aside. 

“Are you hot?” asked Theon and Sansa nodded. “Hang on,” he said and rearranged himself, first to flush the toilet, then around until he was sitting with his back against the wall and coaxing Sansa to put her head in his lap, lying down on the cool tiles. It was a cliche, he knew, but fucked if it wasn’t awesome lying on cold bathroom tiles when you were drunk-sick and felt like your skin was boiling. Since Joffrey, Sansa no longer wore the tiny skirts and shorts she’d used to party in, but her sequinned top left her arms and decolletage bare and Theon smiled as Sansa slowly rearranged herself to maximise the amount of bare skin against the tiles. 

They sat there for some time, Theon gently stroking Sansa’s hair as she slowly stopped sweating, the smallest amount of colour returning to her cheeks. Finally, still without opening her eyes, she mumbled, “Don’t have to stay.”

Theon smiled. “It’s okay, Sans. I’m happy to stay until you feel better.”

“Always rescue me,” she said, a frown flitting across face. “Should be… party.”

“Maybe when you can make complete sentences,” replied Theon, “I’ll go back to the party.” He looked down at Sansa’s pale face. “I didn’t really expect that I’d be holding your hair back tonight,” he said lightly. “Robb’s maybe. Even Jon. Now he’s all… shaggy.”

“Musher,” said Sansa indistinctly. “He… musher. Wooly.”

“It was good of him to visit for Arya’s 18th,” said Theon. “I haven’t heard a squeal that high-pitched since Robb tried catching the greased piglet that time. And the piglet was nearly as bad.”

The smallest smile touched Sansa’s mouth. “She very excited. Best surprise.”

“Yes. Best surprise,” said Theon, grinning and then his expression became serious as he looked down at Sansa. “Are you okay, Sans? You’re not the kind to get this drunk.”

There was a long silence, so long that Theon even began to wonder whether Sansa had fallen asleep in his lap. Then, finally, she said, “Couldn’t stop. Once I started. Couldn’t… All the people. So many. I thought… but then I couldn’t stop. Wanted to make all of it go away. They kept asking me if I’m alright. And I say yes.” There was a long pause, then quietly Sansa confessed, “‘M not alright. Not today.”

Theon continued to stroke Sansa’s hair. “It’s okay… not to be okay,” he said eventually. 

“I know,” said Sansa, passionately, then stopped as she suddenly went pale again, swallowed. Finally she seemed to regain her equilibrium. “But I want be… better. How you do it?”

“Sometimes I don’t,” said Theon, softly. “Sometimes I’m really not okay. Time helps. Robb helps. And Yara. And I’ve got my therapist on speed dial when it gets… really not good. Which is a lot less often these days.”

“I thought…” Sansa rolled over suddenly, finally opened her eyes, looking up at Theon. “When Robert… I thought there’d be no more Joffrey. Then there was no more Joffrey and I… don’t know how that makes me feel. Should feel good. Shouldn’t I?”

In the aftermath of Sansa’s escape from King’s Landing and the subsequent serving of the restraining order, Robert Baratheon had flown to Winterfell without wife or son, had apologised to Sansa and promised to keep his child (“Cersei’s little monster” he’d called Joffrey, as if he didn’t even want to claim kinship with him) from causing her any further harm. This strange bluff man, with a fragility Sansa didn’t understand, had been humble and sincere and she’d trusted his word, developed some insight into why Ned was still friends with him. She’d barely started to recover some sense of safety, some feeling that Joffrey might not haunt the rest of her days when the news had come from King’s Landing. Of all the stupid, unexpected, inexplicable things; an outbreak of food poisoning had hit King’s Landing and Joffrey - Joffrey was dead. 

“It’s complicated,” said Theon, and sighed. “There was love. Once. That makes it hard.”

“How ‘bout you?” asked Sansa. “With Ramsay… still around?”

Theon sighed again, picked invisible lint off the leg of his jeans. “I was kind of used to it. Yara was right; I think Roose kept him in check once Robb threw enough lawyers between me and him. It’s harder…” he stopped for a moment, started again. “Now he’s in jail… he did it to someone else and they were better and braver and stronger than I was and they pressed charges and they beat him. That’s… I didn’t do well with that.” He avoided looking at Sansa’s somewhat bleary eyes. “I should have been stronger.”

Sansa went to pat Theon’s hand, didn’t miss by too much, managed to pat some random area of his leg. “You survived. I remember you saying… how hard that was. Didn’t believe you. You were right.” She looked aside, staring at the bathroom wall. “Not like I managed, either.”

All the Starks had urged Sansa to press charges. Every friend who knew what had happened had urged Sansa to press charges. In the end, she’d gone to Theon, who had never urged her to do anything, and he’d found her an odd little lawyer named, of all things, Dontos, and she and Theon and that little round man had quietly gone to court and asked for nothing more than a restraining order. 

“Why?” asked Sansa, apparently of the bathroom wall. 

“Why what?” prompted Theon eventually, when no further information was forthcoming. 

“Why did I stay with him? Trust him?”

“I don’t know,” replied Theon, honestly. “Maybe because you’re a Stark and you learned to trust the people you love completely and fiercely and without boundaries. You guys are good at that,” he said and half-laughed, stroked Sansa’s hair again. “Drowned God, Robb loved me enough to make up for the whole fucked-up Greyjoy family and keep me alive when…” Theon stopped. “It works when you can trust them. Not when they use that against you.”

“But why did I stay?” said Sansa, and it was agonised. “I’m supposed to be strong. Thought I was strong.”

“You are strong,” soothed Theon. “You survived.” He sighed. “Maybe its a direwolf thing,” he said and shrugged. “Aren’t they supposed to mate for life? Maybe that’s what you were looking for.” 

Sansa looked up at him, considered what he said. “Maybe,” she said, but it wasn’t a concession. She frowned suddenly. “What about you krakens? How do krakens love?”

Theon gave a half-laugh. “No-one really knows. No-one’s really sure krakens are still out there. But if they’re like deep sea squid - well, then my love life would consist of enthusiastically throwing a packet of sperm at a girl’s leg, then fucking off into the deep sea to find another one to throw my sperm packets at.” Theon stopped, raised an eyebrow for a minute, then said, “Actually, that sounds more like my love life than I’m comfortable with,” he conceded. “Explains a lot about Yara, too.”

Sansa laughed, then hiccuped, then laughed again. “Not classy, Theon,” she said. 

“Sansa,” he drawled in response. “No one has ever accused me of being classy.”

“Are,” she said softly. “This is classy. Being kind. Didn’t know… before. But being kind… classy.”

“Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything,” said Theon. “Thank you for giving me my “I’m Classy” merit badge, oh future Queen of all Westeros.”

“Not Queen,” replied Sansa and suddenly her face distorted, as if she might cry. “Why did I stay, Theon? When he hit me? When he called me… things. You said I should never let anyone say things like that to me and he did and I stayed. And I loved him and I stayed.”

Theon sighed, stroked Sansa’s hair again. “I stayed,” he said softly. “When Ramsay did… what he did. Because we trusted them too much or loved the wrong people or were so frightened we could never escape or… we stayed, Sansa. But they’re the ones who hurt us. The people they said they loved. It’s not about why we stayed. It’s about why they wanted to hurt the people they loved.”

“I let him hit me,” whispered Sansa. “I was supposed to be strong and I let him hit me.”

“Would it help,” said Theon, reluctantly then stopped. Started again. “Have you ever seen my scars, Sansa?” he asked.

Sansa shook her head. “You know I haven’t. No-one has. ‘Cept Robb. Yara?” 

Theon shook his head. “Not Yara. Only Robb.” He looked away from Sansa, steeled himself. “Would it help if I showed you my scars?” he finally managed.

Sansa looked up at him and actually managed to push herself up, lean against the bathroom wall. She touched the back of Theon’s hand. “You don’t have to,” she said earnestly. 

“Would it help?” replied Theon, steadily. “If you see what people will stay through.” He reached out, stroked Sansa’s hair back from where it was stuck to her cheek, back behind her ear. 

She nodded, opened her mouth as if to say something, closed it. Looking down at her hands, Sansa nodded again. 

Theon took a deep breath, felt his hands shaking against his thighs, stilled them through sheer force of will. Except for various medical personnel and a couple of lawyers, the only person who had seen him without a shirt on since Ramsay was Robb (in spite of the occasionally quite determined efforts of a number of the women Theon had slept with since then – he was willing, on the whole, to ascribe at least fifty per cent of the blame for the fleeting state of his love life to his inability to manage the issue).

But it was Sansa. Who knew how hard this was for him. And still said it would help her.

He couldn’t say no in the face of that level of trust in him.

That level of need.

Carefully, trying hard not to think about what he was doing, Theon slipped his hands under the bottom of his t-shirt. Taking a deep breath, he slipped it up and over his head, emerging to see Sansa looking at his chest, her eyes wide, her bottom lip caught within her teeth. 

They weren’t what they had been years ago, the red and angry puckered ridges that he remembered horrifying Robb so completely (much as Robb had tried to hide it). Time and physiotherapy had stretched his skin, the scar tissue fading and silvering. But even faded as they were, they laced across the skin of his chest and stomach, in some places so closely spaced they looked almost like fish scales carved into him, the marks where Ramsay had slid his so sharp knives in under the skin, twisted until Theon had thought his world was ending, thought that he was ending. 

Sansa looked up at him, then, her eyes suddenly focussed. “May I?” she asked, her voice gentle, her hand hovering in the air, waiting for permission and Theon nodded. 

Her fingers settled, as gently as a butterfly, on the scar that rested over his heart, more deeply carved than most. 

“I barely - you could hardly tell what Joffrey… sometimes I wonder if I… made it up. A bad dream.”

I don’t… I don’t have that option,” Theon said softly. “He wanted to carve himself into me.” He reached up, gently took Sansa’s hand in his, lowered it away from his chest. “And I stayed. I tried to think it was what I wanted, because that… helped me survive it. But it was always his choice. To hurt someone who loved him.” Theon raised Sansa’s hand, held in his, to his mouth, pressed the softest of kisses to her palm. “It was never your fault, Sansa. None of it was ever your fault. You did what you had to do to survive and be safe and sometimes that means you have to stay for a while. Because we both know that if we’d tried to leave, they would have killed us.”

It was like watching a dam break behind her eyes, as if the defences she had built up for so long to protect herself from all the people (the kind, good-hearted, concerned people who loved her) who asked over and over again why she didn’t just leave, were dismantled in a single instant. Then her face crumpled, her body crumpled and her head was in Theon’s lap again as she sobbed, a world of hurt pouring out of her.

Theon wanted to comfort her, but for a moment his body wouldn’t let him, nearly paralysed with its own needs, until he reached down, pulled his t-shirt off the floor, slipped it back over his head. Armoured again, his hands reached down, soothed over Sansa’s back as she wept.

She was coming to the end of it, her sobs receding, growing further apart when there was a pounding on the bathroom door.

“Busy,” shouted Theon, hoping whoever it was would go away.

But then Robb’s voice came through the door. “Theon. Thank fuck. Is Sansa with you?”

“Yeah,” replied Theon and checked down on Sansa, saw that her tears were coming to an end. He suddenly realised he’d have to get her out of here and - well, Sansa was a big girl now. At least as tall as Theon was and while she was slender and he worked out, he wasn’t sure picking her up was going to actually be an option. So he called out, “Come in. Door’s not locked.”

The door slid open and Robb looked in on the scene, Theon shrugging as Robb’s eyes slipped over the weeping Sansa in his lap. Robb looked up at Theon, not exactly sober, but far more so than Theon had expected. It was the first party the Starks had held since Talisa had decided that moving back to Essos as a qualified surgeon meant more to her than her relationship with Robb, and Theon had thought he may take the opportunity to get spectacularly drunk, but apparently not. 

“Need a hand?” Robb asked and Theon nodded. 

“Probably,” he said, then leaned down. “Sansa,” he said softly. “Robb’s here. We need to get you to bed. You okay to come with us?”

There was a long silence from Sansa, then finally Theon felt her nodding against his thigh. He nodded at Robb, who came over and managed to help Theon lever Sansa up into an upright position. It was like the tears had made her drunk again, and she wobbled within Robb’s grasp as Theon got up. 

“She okay?” asked Robb, as he slung Sansa’s arm over his shoulder, Theon doing the same on the other side.

“Not really, but it’ll be alright,” predicted Theon. “How’d you know to find us?”

Robb rolled his eyes as they began to walk Sansa back to her bedroom. “We were supposed to be cutting the cake for Arya, but she and Gendry had fucked off. They’re either having sex, he’s giving her a new tattoo, or he’s given her a new set of throwing knives he’s made her as a birthday present. Or, judging by the noises she’s making, all three at the same time. And once I realised they’d gone, I realised you and Sans were missing. Bessa said you’d taken her off upstairs. She’s mighty pissed you left her for Sansa, by the way.”

Theon shrugged. “I’ll try and make it up to her,” he said and flashed Robb a cocky grin. “Unless you want to cover for me.”

Robb rolled his eyes at him. “Not my type,” he said. 

“Your type is in Essos and isn’t coming back,” said Theon. “You could always try someone new, see if it works.” He gave a half-shrug as Robb glared at him. “Just trying to help.”

“Because you are such a helper,” Robb dead-panned as they manoeuvred Sansa through the door of her bedroom, managed to sit her up for long enough for Robb to get her shoes off as Theon held her shoulders, then let her curl up. 

“Sans,” said Theon gently. “It’s time to sleep.” 

“Okay,” Sansa mumbled. 

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” said Robb, pressing a soft kiss to Sansa’s head, then turning to leave with Theon. 

They had nearly made it to the door, when Sansa said. “Don’t. Leave. Stay.”

Theon and Robb exchanged a glance, then Robb said, “Sure, Sans, I’ll stay with you.”

“No,” said Sansa. “Theon. Stay.”

Theon looked at Sansa for a moment, then back at Robb, felt his mouth hanging half-open in surprise. “Hang on a sec, Sansa,” he said, then grabbed Robb’s arm, dragged him outside, closing the door. “Robb,” he protested against an accusation that hadn’t been made. “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m not like that. It’s not like that.”

“Gods, Theon, I know,” replied Robb, almost rolling his eyes. “I mean, seriously… you think I’d think…? Doesn’t matter.” Robb shook his head for a moment, as if to clear it. “It’s Sans, right? My perfect little sister. Who does everything better and smarter and faster and harder than everyone else. Who’s been turning herself into steel and ice every day since she got back from what that evil little shit of a… fucking monster did to her. Because she thinks people might think she’s a failure and she deals with that by making herself ever more perfect and stronger and harder every fucking day. Gods, Theon,” said Robb, again, and raised a hand that shook as he ran it through his hair. “I’ve been fucking terrified watching her turn herself into… into perfect Sansa. Who no-one ever hurt, who’s never failed, who’s pretending so fucking hard…”

Theon stared at Robb for a minute, then did a rapid re-evaluation of what he’d been thinking. “I think she’ll be okay,” he said cautiously. 

“Of course she will,” said Robb, almost scornfully. “She’s Sansa. No-one will ever think she’s anything but okay, because that’s what she does.” He looked at Theon then. “She cried,” he said softly. “I haven’t seen her cry once since she got back to Winterfell. I saw  _ you _ cry more often than Sans has. I know it’s the way Sansa copes with things, but it’s not… I don’t think it’s healthy. If she’ll cry when she’s with you, then you fucking stay with her when she asks.”

Theon blinked rapidly, then said, his voice hoarse, “I’ll stay with her, Robb. And then, sometime down the track, you’ve got to tell me when you turned into someone… insightful.”

“I’m vast,” said Robb, his face utterly serious. “I contain multitudes,” and then grinned when Theon laughed. His expression turned serious again, this time for real. “You know, Theon, I want to understand… what she went through. Want to help. I try but… I can’t understand. You can. She needs that. Stay with her. And I’ll… I don’t know. You want juice or something? I can bring you cake. Once Arya and Gendry finish… whatever it is they’re doing. Loudly.”

Theon snorted. “All good,” he said. “Just make sure you fill me in on all the gossip in the morning. And give Bessa my best. Or your best, if you feel like it.”

“Fuck off, Theon,’ said Robb, fondly and then headed back down the hallway towards the party. 

Theon took a deep breath, then opened the door to Sansa’s room, slipped in and closed it, turned the light off. There was enough light through the window that, once his eyes were adjusted to the dark, he could make his way to Sansa’s bed, settle in beside her. He kept a respectable distance between them; he was used to a lot of physical contact with the Starks now, but after what had happened with Joffrey, he let Sansa determine what she wanted. He reached out only with his fingers, touched them lightly to Sansa’s shoulder, let her know he was there. 

“Theon,” she said. 

“I’m here, Sansa,” he affirmed.

“Robb,” she said, then stopped. 

“He’s worried about you,” said Theon eventually, when Sansa didn’t say anything else. 

“He… wants me to be better. All of them. Want me to be… what I was. Over it. Better. Alright. You don’t. You let me be. Be Sansa. Be Sansa now. Can be broken and you… don’t want me to be anything else.”

“I…’ Theon paused, unsure what to say for a moment. “I just want to be here when you need me,” he managed, eventually. 

“Are,” said Sansa. She reached over her shoulder, gripped Theon’s hand, drew it into her waist, so he had to curl around her to follow it. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m sorry that… he did that to you. Sorry that you… had to stay.”

Theon felt tears pricking behind his eyes then, feelings that he’d thought long dealt with suddenly coming back. She’d seen his scars, he realised, and not judged him for them. Something in him softened and changed, a complex shift in feelings that he would need to unravel later. 

But for now, he tightened his hand on Sansa’s waist, breathed out. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“Could you… hold me? Till I sleep?” Sansa asked softly and Theon shifted his body weight, settled himself behind Sansa, the curve of his body fitting against her.

“Whatever you need, Sans,” he said, settling his arm lightly around her waist, feeling her hand curl around his, holding it. 

There was a long silence, so long that he thought she had fallen asleep, and then Sansa said, very softly, “Are we going to be alright, Theon?”

He sighed, a long exhalation, and felt his limbs relax. “Yes,” he said, sincerely. “Yes, Sansa. We’re going to be alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> So finally emerging from a frightening summer of smoke and bushfire and ALL the work around bushfire recovery (organising stuff and paperwork, not fighting the fires!), I finally found time to write again (and get back to the gym, woot!).
> 
> Recovery from domestic abuse... is quite the thing. A complex process and different for everyone. Sansa retreating into being perfect, icy Sansa is the epitome of a wonderful quote from The Trauma Cleaner (a book I cannot recommend highly ENOUGH), that “the opposite of trauma is order”. Sansa lives by that, creating her own perfect facade to try and control her trauma. Theon gives her space to be messy, which she needs to begin healing. 
> 
> Lyrics to Bitter Tears
> 
> Bitter tears keep me going  
> Through the years, freely flowing  
> What have you done  
> Only a gun  
> Could stop these bitter tears  
> The endless streets I walk along  
> You made them seem pretty  
> But no I dress in country songs  
> And wake in New York City  
> I cry…  
> And wake in New York City  
> I cry because it looks so good  
> I cry, why not, it's free  
> And there's nothing more interesting  
> Than crying constantly


End file.
